Marchin' On
by MAS7108
Summary: "I read somewhere that it's better if you try and establish commonalities with your kidnapper," I explained. "Makes it harder for them to put you through a meat grinder." "I don't even know where to find a meat grinder." -Or, how Harry met Mycroft. Or, Season 4, Watson-style. (Title taken from the One Republic song).


I held my breath, willing myself to be as silent as possible. All I had to do, I told myself, was just turn around and find somewhere to hide and call the police. Not so hard. Wasn't like I had anything in the house worth stealing. I backed away as carefully and inconspicuously as I could, intending to turn the corner and call 999.

That didn't work out so much, though, because all of the sudden some massive ginger twat in a suit came looming up out of nowhere.

"Going somewhere, Miss Watson?" How in the seven hells did he know my name?

"I'm afraid you have the advantage of me," I said, because something about Big Red made me feel like we were in a Jane Austen novel, but one of the shitty ones, like 'Persuasion.' "I have no idea who you are." Also I'd inadvertently confirmed that I was actually Harry Watson. Well shit. I hadn't meant to do that. Rule number one when dealing with creepers: _do not confirm that you are the individual that they are trying to creep. _He smiled at me. Creeper-like.

"Irrelevant," he said evenly. "Very fucking relevant, actually," I replied. "Kindly piss off before I call the cops." The man gave me a pitying look. "You're welcome to try," he said condescendingly. "At any rate, there's no need to make threats. I know your brother." I blinked. Well. That came out of the asscrack of nowhere. And he hadn't said that he was John's friend, only that he knew him. "Congratulations," I replied. "Does that come with a trophy?" He rolled his eyes at me and took out his phone. "Ah, John. Good morning." "What is it, Mycroft?" an all-too familiar voice asked patiently. I blinked. Well. Holy pancakes. Big Red did know John (not that that exactly recommended him to me). Also, who in the hell was named Mycroft? Nobody, that was who. "I've just been having a delightful chat with Harriet here," Big Red (I refused to call him Mycroft) said brightly. "She wanted to say hello." "Why in the hell are you having any sort of a chat with Harriet?" John demanded sharply. "Mycroft, what is going on?" "I thought that, given the circumstances, it might be better for your sister to…relocate," Red said mildly. "To London, maybe." "Ah." John exhaled sharply. "I see." I could practically feel him grimacing as he added, "Let me talk to her." Red handed me the phone. "I am not relocating fucking anywhere, and you can tell Cinnamon Stick to shove it," I said flatly. "Charming," John muttered. "Your friend came out of fuck nowhere to kidnap me!" I hissed. "This is not a time to be charming!" "He does that," John admitted. "I am not," I repeated clearly, "going to get in a car with a stranger and go to London. He will probably murder me and leave me in a ditch on the side of the road. I'll get eaten by crows. Is that what you want, John? Do you want my eyeballs to be eaten by crows?" "Don't be ridiculous," he snapped. "He's not going to murder you." He hesitated. "Most likely." I looked up. "Red!" I said sharply. "Are you going to murder me and dump my carcass on the side of the road?" "Tempting," he replied. "Okay," I conceded. "He's probably not going to actually murder me. I'm not going." "Of course," John agreed. "What with the whole being unemployed bit, I can see how this would inconvenience you. Come on, Harry. You can come and visit for awhile. See the baby." "You cannot use your baby to weasel me into visiting you," I protested. "That's not on."

"Give the phone to Mycroft," John ordered. I rolled my eyes but handed him the phone. "Really?" I can hear John shouting even from three feet away. "You really thought that this was the best way to go about this, just showing up at her flat and trying to kidnap her?" "It was...expedient," Mycroft said crisply, delicately holding the phone away from his ear. "You," John snapped, "are a crazy person. Put me on speaker." Mycroft did so, rolling his eyes. "Listen, Harry. Come to London for a bit. You haven't anything else going on right now. I promise Mycroft is perfectly safe. You can visit with the baby and you'd have somewhere to stay-you've heard me talk about Sherlock, Mycroft's brother? He has a room you can stay in." "I also have a lease," I pointed out. "So? Stay for a couple weeks, then," John said. "You're not a bloody hostage, you're a guest." I considered this. I didn't actually have anything going on, although I resented John's assumption. And…a very large piece of me did, in fact, want to bond with me niece. And I was admittedly curious about my sister-in-law. "What's with the sudden desire for family bonding?" I countered. "The whole estrangement thing seemed to be working out well for us." "Yes, well," he said curtly. "It wouldn't kill you to spend some time with your niece. And Mary." "Fine," I conceded. "But Red's carrying my shit downstairs and buying me breakfast."

"No I'm not," he protested. "Shhh, gingerbread," I chided softly. "The adults are talking, sweetie."

"So," I said as I chewed my MarsBar, "is Mycroft your real name?"

"Yes," he answered, eyes not leaving the road.

"Why?"

"Talk to my parents."

"Don't you have a nickname?"

"No."

"C'mon," I said. "Admit it. You were definitely Mike growing up."

"Why don't you go to sleep," he said through gritted teeth.

"I'm not tired," I said. "What do you do?"

"A lot of things," he said.

"For work," I clarified.

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, honey," I said patiently, "you showed up at a complete stranger's doorstep at half-past eight on a Tuesday looking like an extra from _Downton Abbey. _That's...not a thing normal people do."

"I do some small-scale government contract work," he replied. "How can you eat that this early in the morning? It's making me nauseous."

"Breakfast dessert is a thing," I said. "What did you read at college?"

"Linguistics and law," he said. "Really, you can just go to sleep. I won't mind."

"I read somewhere that it's better if you try and establish commonalities with your kidnapper," I explained. "Makes it harder for them to put you through a meat grinder."

"I would not even know where to find a meat grinder," he replied.

"Reassuring," I said. "I did psychology and lit."

"Fascinating," he said dryly.

"Not really, although I have read _Beowulf _like four different times," I said.

"Doubtless something that often comes in handy," he agreed. I reached over to turn on the radio.

"What the hell is this?" I asked.

"Jazz," he said defensively.

"Why?" Red took a deep breath.

"If you just fell asleep, you wouldn't have to listen," he said.

"No chance," I said. "When I'm up I'm up for the day. So you're Sherlock's brother? The Sherlock John writes about?"

"Much to his dismay, yes," Red replied.

"Huh." I chewed thoughtfully. "And he's the one I'll be staying with?"

"Apparently," Mycroft replied.

"Why didn't you tell John you were coming to get me?" I asked abruptly. "He didn't send you."

"No," Myccroft said.

"Right chatterbox, aren't you."

"You could read," he said. "Listen to your own music. With headphones. Quietly."

"I could," I conceded. "But then you'd be deprived of my delightful company."

"And what a shame that would be," he muttered.

It takes us what feels like forever to get into London, two hours stretched into what feels like twenty because of the driver's frankly hideous taste in music, although he might have a point in arguing that it was my insistence on stopping every quarter hour for food.

"You cannot be hungry again," he hissed at me. I just looked at him.

"Let me explain something," I said. "I am always hungry. And in case anyone was wondering, you owe me on account on the fact that you kidnapped me."

"Oh for God's sake," he snapped. "You got into the car of your own free will. And you made me pack for you."

"And you'll be unpacking when we get there, mind," I warned. "I didn't forget."

"Here," he said, pulling up in front of a house turned into apartments. "This is Sherlock's flat."

"Nice," I said, climbing out of the car.

"Hmm," Mycroft said noncommittally. "You're really going to make me bring your things in?"

"Step lively, Red," I said. "We haven't got all day." Mycroft gave me a Look, and knocked on the door.

"Oh, Mycroft," a little old lady said, opening the door. "And who is this?"

"This," said Mycroft dourly, "is Harriet Watson."

"Not our John's sister?" she asked, clearly delighted. "How lovely. Aren't you a doll," she said, reaching out to touch my hair, which is pretty much the reaction I always got to my existence, so. "I'm Martha Hudson."

"Nice to meet you," I said.

"Will you be staying with us? You must be up to visit with the baby," she said brightly.

"I am," I agreed.

"Wonderful," she said, squeezing my arm. "Are you hungry?" I decided I was in love with her.

"Starving." Mycroft stared at me in disbelief. The little old lady beamed.

"Wonderful. I'll bring something up; God knows Sherlock probably hasn't eaten today either." She led us up the stairs. "Didn't you bring anything, dear?" she asked me.

"I did," I replied. "And Mycroft is a moving wizard and bringing it all up for me, isn't he?"

"Such a sweet boy," the little old lady said approvingly. Mycroft looked ready to kick something. The little old lady knocked on the door, but didn't wait for an answer.

"Sherlock? Your brother a-"

"Ah. Harriet." The beanpole who answered to Sherlock, I would not have picked out of a lineup as Red's brother any day of the weak. Reading John's blog you'd put him as a mad scientist type, and that wasn't wrong. Where Red was built like a tank but ginger, Sherlock (their parents have got to be the shittiest) is a stringbean, brunet, and looked like he should be sashaying down a runway. His hair was as curly as mine, though slightly more under control. "Thank you for letting them up," he said to Little Old Lady. He frowned at me. "Did you not being anything? I'm sorry, I'm not sure anything I have will come close to fitting you, although I suppose you could borrow some things of Mary's-"

"I brought things," I assured him. "Your brother's bringing them up." He blinked.

"My brother?"'

"Last time I checked," I replied.

"He's voluntarily moving your things?"

"Or throwing them in the nearest skip," I replied. "Really could go either way, I don't know that he's my biggest fan."

"He's not my biggest fan, either, to tell you the truth," Sherlock said. "Anyhow your room is upstairs, first on the left."

"Thanks for letting me stay," I said. "Or being told to let me stay. Whatever the case may be."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I'll barely notice you're here. How do you feel about Tchaikovsky?"

"I don't know, but The Nutcracker is the shit," I said. "I see it every year." He looked at me in despair.

"We'll work on it."

"I'll bring up some sandwiches," the Little Old Lady offered. "Is Mycroft staying?"

"No," said Sherlock.

"Yes," I said. "He's helping me unpack and he'll need to eat to keep his energy up."

"How did you get him to agree to that?" Sherlock asked, incredulous.

"Wasn't that hard," I said breezily. "He's adorable once you get past the fact that he's creepy as shit."

"I'm not adorable," an irritated, out-of-breath voice snapped. "Sherlock, help me with this." Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but Little Old Lady said, "Sherlock, go help your brother."

"Fine," he muttered. I followed them both downstairs and loaded my arms. "I'm glad you agreed to stay."

"Thanks," I said, choosing to ignore the fact that 85% of the decision had been made because my mattress at home had been rescued from the side of the road and was giving me back problems, so I figured this one had to be better. "Is she the landlady?" I added curiously.

"She is," Sherlock confirmed.

"John always says she should be cannonized," I said. "Says she's basically a saint."

"One time I shot the wall," he muttered. "It was one time." "I did not know that," I said. "What did the wall ever do to you?" Sherlock shrugged. I figured that was all the answer I was getting.

"Is John coming by to help settle you in?" the adorable landlady asked.

"Christ I hope not," I said fervently.

"Oh," she said, looking slightly startled.

"I'm sure he's busy," I amended, feeling a little guilty. She smiled at me.

"New babies can be overwhelming. But I'm sure he and Mary are thrilled you'll be around," she said warmly.

"Sure," I agreed. There was no way I was going to ruin the poor dear's kindly meant illusions about John's and my relationship. Mostly because John's a dickhead. Mostly.


End file.
